Blue World (22 page)

“Quit the jawin‘!” a third biker said. “We gonna tear this green fruit apart or not?”

The Green Falcon stepped forward, and he didn’t know what he was about to say, but lines from old scripts were whirling through his recollection like moths through klieg lights. “Any son who loves his mother,” he said, “is a true American, and I’m proud to call him friend.” He held his hand out toward Brown Beard.

The other man stared at it and blinked uncertainly. “Who… who the hell are you?”

“I’m the Green Falcon. Defender of the underdog. Righter of wrongs and champion of justice.”

That’s not me talking, he realized.

It’s from

Night Calls the Green Falcon,

Chapter Five.

But he realized also that his voice sounded different, in a strange way. It was not the voice of an old man anymore; it was a sturdy, rugged voice, with a bass undertone as strong as a fist. It was a hero’s voice, and it demanded respect.

No one laughed.

And the biker with the brown beard slid his hand into the Green Falcon’s and the Green Falcon gripped it hard and said, “Walk tall and think tall, son.”

At least for a few seconds, he had them. They were in a thrall of wonder, just like the little children who’d come to see him during the public-relations tour in the summer of

, when he’d shaken their hands and told them to respect their elders, put up their toys, and do right: the simple secret of success. Those children had wanted to believe in him, so badly; and now in this biker’s eyes there was that same glimmer--faint and faraway, yes--but as clear as a candle in the darkness. This was a little boy standing here, trapped in a grown-up skin. The Green Falcon nodded recognition, and when he relaxed his grip, the biker didn’t want to let go.

“I’m looking for a man who I think is the Fliptop Killer,” the Green Falcon told them. He described the blond man who’d escaped from the window of Julie Saufley’s apartment. “Have any of you seen a man who fits that description?”

Brown Beard shook his head. None of the others offered information either. Dogmeat moaned, starting to come around. “Where is he?” Dogmeat mumbled. “I’ll rip his head off.”

“Hey, this joint’s about as much fun as a mortician’s convention,” one of the bikers said. “Women are ugly as hell too. Let’s hit the road.”

“Yeah,” another agreed. “Ain’t nothin‘ happenin’ around here.” He bent down to help haul Dogmeat up. Their leader was still dazed, his eyes roaming in circles. The bikers guided Dogmeat toward the door, but the brown-bearded one hesitated.

“I’ve heard of you before,” he said. “Somewhere. Haven’t I?”

“Yes,” the Green Falcon answered. “I think you probably have.”

The man nodded. Pitched his voice lower, so the others couldn’t hear: “I used to have a big stack of

Batman comics. Read ‘em all the time. I used to think he was real, and I wanted to grow up just like him. Crazy, huh?“

“Not so crazy,” the Green Falcon said.

The other man smiled slightly, a wistful smile. “I hope you find who you’re lookin‘ for. Good luck.” He started after his friends, and the Green Falcon said, “Do right.”

And then they were gone, the sounds of their motorcycles roaring away. The Green Falcon glanced again at the bartender, still hoping for some information, but the man’s face remained a blank.

“You want a beer, Greenie?” someone asked, and the Green Falcon turned to face the tall black go-go dancer.

“No, thank you. I’ve got to go.” To where, he didn’t know, but the Grinderswitch was a dead end.

He had taken two steps toward the door when Grade said, “I’ve seen him. The guy you’re after.” The Green Falcon abruptly stopped. “I know that face,” Gracie went on. “He was in here maybe two, three hours ago.”

“Do you know his name?”

“No. But I know where he lives.”

His heart kicked. “Where?”

*

“Well… he might live there or he might not,” she amended. She came closer to him, and he figured she was in her late twenties, but it was hard to tell with all the makeup. “A motel on the Strip. The Palmetto. See, I used to… uh… work there. I was an escort.” She flashed a quick warning glance at the bartender, as if she just dared him to crack wise. Then back to the Green Falcon again. “I used to see this guy hanging out around there. He comes in here maybe two or three times a week. Asked me out one time, but I wouldn’t go.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged. “Too white. Amazin‘ Grace doesn’t have to go out with just anybody. I choose my own friends.”

“But you remember seeing him at the Palmetto?”

“Yeah. Or at least somebody who fits that description. I’m not saying it’s the same guy. Lots of creeps on the Strip, and those hot-springs motels lure most of them one time or another.” She licked her lower lip; the shine of excitement was in her eyes. “You really think he’s the Fliptop?”

“I do. Thank you for telling me, miss.” He started toward the door, but again her husky voice stopped him.

“Hey, hold on! The Palmetto’s about ten or twelve blocks east. You got a car?”

“No.”

“Neither do I, but there’s a cabstand down the street. I’m just clocking out. Right, Tony?”

“You’re the star,” the bartender said with a wave of his hand.

“You want some company, Greenie? I mean…” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not a crazy yourself, are you?” Gracie laughed at her own question. “Hell, sure you are! You’ve got to be! But I’m heading that way, and I’ll show you the place if you want. For free.”

“Why would you want to help me?” he asked.

Gracie looked wounded. “I’ve got civic pride, that’s why! Hell, just because I strut my butt in this joint five nights a week doesn’t mean I’m not a humanitarian!”

The Green Falcon considered that, and nodded. Amazin‘ Grace was obviously intelligent, and she probably enjoyed the idea of a hunt. He figured he could use all the help he could get. “All right. I’ll wait while you get dressed.”

She frowned. “I

am dressed, fool! Let’s go!“

They left the Grinderswitch and started walking east along the boulevard. Gracie had a stride that threatened to leave him behind, and his green suit drew just as many double-takes as her lean ebony body in its tigerskin wrapping. The cabstand was just ahead, and a cab was there, engine running. A kid in jeans and a black leather jacket leaned against the hood; he was rail-thin, his head shaved bald except for a tuft of hair in the shape of a question mark on his scalp.

“You got a fare, kid,” Gracie said as she slid her mile-long legs in. “Move it!”

The kid said, “I’m waitin‘ for--”

“Your wait’s over,” Gracie interrupted. “Come on, we don’t have all night!”

The kid shrugged, his eyes vacant and disinterested, and got behind the wheel. As soon as the Green Falcon was in, the kid shot away from the curb with a shriek of burning rubber and entered the flow of westbound traffic.

“We want to go to the Palmetto Motel,” Gracie said. “You know where that is?”

“Sure.”

“Well, you’re going the wrong way. And start your meter, unless we’re going to ride for free.”

“Oh. Yeah.” The meter’s arm came down, and the mechanism started ticking. “You want to go east, huh?” he asked. And without warning he spun the wheel violently, throwing the Green Falcon and Gracie up against the cab’s side, and the vehicle careened in a tight U-turn that narrowly missed a collision with a BMW. Horns blared and tires screeched, but the kid swerved into the eastbound lane as if he owned Hollywood Boulevard. And the Green Falcon saw a motorcycle cop turn on his blue light and start after them, at the same time as a stout Hispanic man ran out of a Chock Full O’Nuts coffee shop yelling and gesturing frantically.

“Must be a caffeine fit,” Gracie commented. She heard the siren’s shrill note and glanced back. “Smart move, kid. You just got a blue-tailed fly on your ass.”

The kid laughed, sort of. The Green Falcon’s gut tightened; he’d already seen the little photograph on the dashboard that identified the cabdriver. It was a stout Hispanic face.

“Guy asked me to watch his cab while he ran in to pick up some coffee,” the kid said with a shrug. “Gave me a buck, too.” He looked in the rearview mirror. The motorcycle cop was waving him over. “What do you want me to do, folks?”

The Green Falcon had decided, just that fast. The police might be looking for him since he’d left the apartment building, and if they saw him like this they wouldn’t understand. They’d think he was just a crazy old man out for a joyride through fantasy, and they’d take the Green Falcon away from him.

And if anyone could find the Fliptop Killer and bring him to justice, the Green Falcon could.

He said, “Lose him.”

The kid looked back, and now his eyes were wide and thrilled. He grinned. “Roger wilco,” he said, and pressed his foot to the accelerator.

The cab’s engine roared, the vehicle surged forward with a power that pressed the Green Falcon and Gracie into their seats, and the kid whipped around a Mercedes and then up onto the curb, where people screamed and leapt aside. The cab, its exhaust pipe spitting fire, rocketed toward the plate-glass window of a lingerie store.

Gracie gave a stunned little cry, gripped the Green Falcon’s hand with knuckle-cracking force, and the Green Falcon braced for impact.

Handful of Straws

The kid spun the wheel to the left, and the cab’s fender knocked sparks off a brick wall as it grazed past the window. Then he veered quickly to the right, clipped away two parking meters, and turned the cab off Hollywood onto El Centra Avenue. He floorboarded the gas pedal.

“Let me outta here!” Gracie shouted, and she grasped the door’s handle but the cab’s speedometer needle was already nosing past forty. She decided she didn’t care for a close acquaintance with asphalt, and anyway, the Green Falcon had her other hand and wasn’t going to let her jump.

The motorcycle cop was following, the blue light spinning and the siren getting louder. The kid tapped the brakes and swerved in front of a gasoline truck, through an alley, and behind a row of buildings, then back onto El Centra and speeding southward. The motorcycle cop came out of the alley and got back on their tail, again closing the gap between them.

“What’s your name?” the Green Falcon asked.

“Me? Ques,” he answered. “Because of--”

“I can guess why. Ques, this is very important.” The Green Falcon leaned forward, his fingers clamped over the seat in front of him. “I don’t want the policeman to stop us. I’m--” Again, lines from the scripts danced through his mind. “I’m on a mission,” he said. “I don’t have time for the police. Do you understand?”

Ques nodded. “No,” he said. “But if you want to give the cop a run, I’m your man.” The speedometer’s needle was almost to sixty, and Ques was weaving in and out of traffic like an Indy racer. “Hold on,” he said.

Gracie screamed.

Ques suddenly veered to the left, almost grazing the fenders of cars just released from a red light at the intersection of El Centro and Fountain Avenue. Outraged horns hooted, but then the cab had cleared the intersection and was speeding away. Ques took a hard right onto Gordon Street, another left on Lexington, and then pulled into an alley behind a Taco Bell. He drew up close to a dumpster and cut the headlights.

Gracie found her voice: “Where the hell did you learn to drive? The Demolition Derby?”

Ques got himself turned around in the seat so he could look at his passengers. He smiled, and the smile made him almost handsome. “Close. I was a third-unit stunt driver in

Beverly Hills Cop II.

This was a piece of cake.“

“I’m getting out right here.” Gracie reached for the door’s handle. “You two never saw me before, okay?”

“Wait.” The Green Falcon grasped her elbow. The motorcycle cop was just passing, going east on Lexington. The siren had been turned off, and the blue light faded as he went on.

“Not in the clear yet,” Ques said. “There’ll be a lot of shellheads looking for us. We’d better sit here awhile.” He grinned at them. “Fun, huh?”

“Like screwing in a thornpatch.” Gracie opened the door. “I’m gone.”

“Please don’t go,” the Green Falcon said. “I need you.”

“You need a good shrink is what you need. Man, I must’ve been crazy myself to get into this! You thinking you could track down the Fliptop!” She snorted. “Green Falcon, my ass!”

“I need you,” he repeated firmly. “If you’ve got connections at the Palmetto, maybe you can find someone who’s seen him.”

“The Fliptop?” Ques asked, his interest perked again. “What about that sonofabitch?”

“I saw him tonight,” the Green Falcon said. “He killed a friend of mine, and Gracie knows where he might be.”

“I didn’t say that, man. I said I knew where I’d seen a guy who looked like the guy who’s been coming into the Grinderswitch. That’s a big difference.”

“Please stay. Help me. It’s the only lead I’ve got.”

Gracie looked away from him. The door was halfway open and she had one leg out. “Nobody cares about anybody else in this city,” she said. “Why should I stick around and get my ass in jail… or worse?”

“I’ll protect you,” he answered.

She laughed. “Oh, yeah! A guy in a green freaksuit’s going to protect me! Wow, my mind feels so much better! Let me go.” He hesitated, then did as she said. She sat on the seat’s edge, about to get out. About to. But a second ticked past, and another, and still she sat there. “I live on Olympic Boulevard,” she said. “Man, I am a long way from home.”

“Green Falcon, huh?” Ques asked. “That what you call yourself?”

“Yes. That’s…” A second or two of indecision. “That’s who I am.”

“You got information about the Fliptop, why don’t you give it to the cops?”

“Because…”

Why not, indeed?

he asked himself. “Because the Fliptop’s killed nine times and he’s going to kill again. Maybe tonight, even. The police aren’t even close to finding him.

We are.“

“No, we’re not!” Gracie objected. “Just because I saw a guy at a motel a few times doesn’t mean he’s the Fliptop! You’ve got a handful of straws, man!”

“Maybe I do. But it’s worth going to the Palmetto to find out, isn’t it?”